


A Prince’s Paradigm, A Dragon’s Desire

by Azaraethe



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure, Drama, Dumb Prince and Dumber Wildman, Erune Twins, Fluff, Heavy Plot, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Mystery, Politics, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22986115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaraethe/pseuds/Azaraethe
Summary: Siegfried undertakes a covert mission from King Carl and enters the Duchy of Dalmore as Feendrache’s Ambassador. The King of Wales, Aglovale believes that Feendrache still bears a grudge towards him for the previous infraction many years ago, and sends Percival to spy on his former commander. Siegfried is pleased to meet Percival again after two years of absence. However, Siegfried realizes that he is not the only one who has changed.Set two years after the SIEGFRIED event, this is planned to be a multi-chapter fic. Rating will change and more tags will follow as chapters are added.
Relationships: Percival/Siegfried (Granblue Fantasy), Siegfried/Percival (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. Secretary Wales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival attempts to teach Siegfried a waltz to prepare his former captain for the Duke's upcoming ball. Would his efforts pay off, or would it be in vain?

“No!”

“No?”

“No!”

The flame-haired man stood up, his eyebrows arched, his brow furrowed, and a deep notch had etched its way in the middle of his otherwise, perfect features. His hand swung out and braced the back of the very tall fellow he was addressing, albeit instructing.

Instructing in a very exasperated way.

“Straight,” He flattened the edge of his palm hard against the larger man’s spine and, with his forearm, pushed the fellow’s elbow to adjust the angle. “Higher, not slouched.”

The chestnut-haired fellow let out a soft chuckle that was promptly hushed by a stern glare from Percival. The former stayed in position while the flame-haired man tucked efficiently at the bigger man’s arms, legs, and feet. Satisfied with the overall posture, Percival snapped his fingers at the pianist seated at the far end of the music room. The bespectacled harvin gulped nervously, and his tiny fingers nervously started on Maud Aloysius’s Serenade to Spring for the umpteenth time.

“Turn at this beat,” Percival instructed, his hand moving in to steady the other man’s hip. His voice had lost some of the earlier irritation, and his attention was entirely focused on making sure his former captain could complete a full waltz turn without tripping over his feet.

“And one, and two, and three...pivot! You’re slouching your elbow again, Siegfried!”

Vexed, Percival smacked his hands together, the clap resounding like vengeful thunder right up to the high ceiling. The pianist shook in fear, yanking his hands off the piano immediately. His short legs trembled and swung, knocking his toe against the piano’s wooden body. 

“Are you even trying, Siegfried?”

Siegfried had paused in mid-dance, one arm raised and perched on his imaginary partner’s shoulder, his too-long legs standing apart in an awkward angle.

“I am, Percival.” The big man dropped his hands from their lifted positions, his fingers moving over a wrist to rub a very sore stretch of muscles.

Siegfried glanced over his shoulder at the irate Percival behind him. The prince was knuckling his forehead in frustration. Percival had steepled two fingers against his forehead and muttered, 

“Let’s just stop for the night.”

His irked gaze, deepened to a flashing carmine, swung towards the pianist who was quietly climbing down from the piano seat.

“And you!”

The harvin snatched his music scores up with sweaty fingers, his green eyes beseechingly staring at Siegfried, his mouth gaping like a goldfish.

_ Save me, Sir. _

The harvin’s small, pinched mouth pulled and gawked into a series of big and small ‘O’s as he jabbed at the air with his chin towards the glowering flame-haired man.

_ Save me from Secretary Wales! _

“That is enough, Percival.” Siegfried filled the space between the cowering pianist and the flame-haired man. Hands now on his hips, Siegfried turned to face Percival and smiled, his large mouth tipping upwards into a broad curve.

Siegfried’s smile was cordial, congenial, and very dangerous.

“We are stopping, and we should rest. Let the pianist go home.”

Behind the safety of his back, Siegfried’s finger wiggled in a gesture at the frightened pianist, and that finger pointed straight towards the open doors. Upon deciphering Siegfried’s intention, the harvin let out a mousey squeak and scrambled off the piano seat. With his music scores tucked haphazardly under his small arm, the harvin made haste and sped out of the room as fast as his short, plump legs could carry him.

“You should have fired him.” Percival glared at the escaping harvin, nettled. He knuckled a throbbing vein in his temple, his fingers scrounging through his hair. “Absolutely poor taste in music, and he can’t even keep a proper beat.”

Siegfried continued to smile as Percival sucked in a deep breath to calm himself down. 

“Mr. Schorebert was assigned by the Duke’s office. We cannot just say no to hospitality, Percival.”

Siegfried lifted a finger to unhook the cravat around his neck, loosening the tight folds of starched cloth. Percival scowled.

“You’re wearing that ridiculous thing again.” Percival disdainfully eyed the short strip of white fabric tied around Siegfried’s neck.

“I cannot say no to hospitality, Percival.” Siegfried shrugged, his broad shoulders rolling pleasantly as he unwound the cravat from his neck. The neckcloth was folded and tucked into the pocket of his slacks. The man took two strides forth, away from Percival’s space, and made his way to the bar. “They provided me with a wonderful wardrobe. I should appreciate this generous gesture and wear all these clothes.”

Percival clamped his mouth into a grim hyphenated line. 

Tapping his fingers on the countertop, Siegfried contemplated the liquor cabinet. The Duke’s staff had generously stocked this cabinet with an assortment of local decoctions and foreign spirits. Siegfried clicked his tongue faintly in appreciation, unlatched the cabinet, and selected two plain, flat-bottomed glass tumblers, along with one of the bottles he favored since last week. 

An aged luxury malt scotch. 

“When in Dalmore, do what Dalmoreans do.” Siegfried turned away from the bar, advising Percival placidly. The man held both tumblers cupped in one hand, and the bottle of whiskey in the other. He beckoned to Percival to move to the side of the music room, where a stretch of large bay windows blended with the plaster columns.

“Have a seat, Secretary Wales.” Siegfried grinned, setting the tumblers down on the round table between two heavy upholstered armchairs. Percival glared up at the chestnut-haired fellow before shoving himself onto one of the chairs. His fingers gripped the foliate carvings on the chair’s arm tightly. The bottle was uncapped and tipped into the tumblers, a vanilla woodsy aroma drifting from each slosh of whiskey into the glass cups. 

“And drink, Percival. You need this.” A tumbler, with a half-finger’s worth of golden-honey liquid, was held in front of Percival’s face. He grabbed it without a word, cradling the glass cup with his hands. A displeased frown lingered on his lower lip. Percival was just about to take a small sip when his eyes sighted Siegfried’s tumbler.

Siegfried had filled his cup to almost half - a liberal four fingers’ worth of whiskey, the alcohol almost sloshing out of the tumbler. With a satisfied hmph, the chestnut-haired fellow set himself down into the other chair, his elbows nudging against the chair’s cushioned manchettes. He tipped the tumbler to his lips, and his eyes closed in appreciation with each drink.

Siegfried leaned back, closing his eyes. He expelled an indulgent sigh, his lips parting widely to let out a long breath.

Percival stared at the measly portion in his tumbler, his eyes narrowing. He sucked in a deep breath and downed the contents in one mouthful. The liquor clawed fervently at his tongue and tore heatedly inside his mouth. He squinted, trying not to wince at the sudden burn down his throat. 

Swiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Percival turned to grasp the bottle on the table, intending on seconds. Siegfried glanced at the flame-haired man with one half-lidded eye as Percival reached out for the bottle of whiskey, uncapped it with vehemence, and poured a more substantial serving for himself.

Siegfried could not help but laugh. He sat up, straightening his back against the chair, the tapered folds of his dress-shirt tugging against the planes of his chest and back. He too turned to his side, and his tumbler was placed down on the table with a clink.

“That’s not water you’re drinking, Percival.”

Siegfried chuckled, his large hand moving to flick away several strands of tawny gold that had fallen about his eyes.  Sidling closer to the edge of his armchair, Siegfried rested his elbow on the table as he kept a concerned eye on Percival.

Percival did not reply, nor did he look at Siegfried. Instead, his attention focused on the whiskey bottle.  He capped the bottle forcefully, his knuckles whitening as he gave the cap another sharp twist, the metal rim biting into his flesh. Percival snatched up his glass and tilted the edge to his lips for a large mouthful. His cheeks deflated as he swallowed the liquor, the alcohol searing angrily through his throat.

Since Percival had decisively ignored him, Siegfried settled back into his armchair, crossing one leg over the other. His elbows lazily splayed across the chair’s manchettes again.  His eyes returned to its half-lidded state, admiring the moon-doused view beyond the windows. Siegfried had picked up his tumbler once more, and the glass rim was pressed at languid intervals to his mouth.

The Ambassador’s manor was situated in a cul-de-sac of a secluded road, just a short distance from the Duke’s palace. These two residences, along with all upper-class dwellings lay in a half-moon around the Duchy’s central city, separated by several tall rows of stately poplars and grassy hills. This particular music room was located on the third floor. A modest, columnated affair, the room’s curved stretch of bay windows along its eastern wall overlooked rolling hills and pastures. Dalmore’s pride was her wealth of natural resources - towering mountains whose glaciers fed numerous rivers, and ancient timber forests.

_ Secretary Wales. _

That name grated on his nerves.  His current situation was becoming difficult, and he never realized it would come to this stage where he _ needed _ to masquerade as one of Siegfried’s staff. Keeping his brother in the dark about his circumstances bothered him a lot more than he thought it would. Percival downed the last dredges of whiskey in his tumbler, his nerves emulsifying into a jumble of tension and irritation. 

His eyes stared ahead, at his tense reflection in the bay window’s wide glass pane. Then, he slammed the tumbler onto the table, the glass resounding with a loud thud on the table’s polished surface. The alcohol seethed in his lips, in his tongue, and vibrated feverishly in his chest. His skin felt hot. Percival closed his eyes painfully. He could distinctively hear Siegfried sipping and swallowing the remainder of his whiskey.

“Siegfried...”

Percival slurred. He turned, stretching his waist to lean over the cushioned arm of his chair, his tongue catching the last few syllables of Siegfried’s name in a lisp.

“Hmm?” 

Siegfried’s brows lifted, and one eye widened to glance sideways at Percival. The prince was resting his elbows on the table, his chin propped up by upright palms. His body, oddly contorted, almost draping over the manchette as he leaned further forward.

“Do not call me Secretary Wales.”

Percival glowered at his former captain, the whiskey incinerating his cheeks and up through his nose. His eyes narrowed, their carmine brightening to a giddy scarlet, as he attempted to focus on Siegfried’s face.

“I’m warning you, Siegfried. If you call me that again, I’ll burn this manor down.”

Siegfried laughed again, amiable and low, ignoring Percival’s threat. He took one last sip from his tumbler, rolling the flavorful drops of whiskey on his tongue. 

“Percival, the ball’s tomorrow evening...” Siegfried settled his empty tumbler on the table, his tawny gaze raking across Percival’s flushed face. Bemusedly, his former captain remarked, a disappointed edge to his voice, “And we are still not done with today’s dance lesson.”

“That’s because you’re so bad with your feet,” Percival muttered. His tongue felt as if it had melted into the roof of his mouth. He heeled his forehead with his palm, rubbing an unusually warm, throbbing spot above his eyes. “Which does not make any sense…”

Siegfried grinned. The alcohol had given Percival a new perspective of being even more brazen and foul-tempered. Not that Siegfried minded; in fact, he found it fascinating as usual. Siegfried stood, stretching his long body slightly, his tails of his shirt loosening from the fitted waistband of his slacks.

“It makes absolute sense, Percival.”

Siegfried closed the small space between him and Percival’s armchair, his tongue clicking softly against his teeth at the flame-haired man who was sprawling across the chair, his arm dangling in a crooked angle across, his cheek resting on that arm.

“Absolute sense when I have to dance with air.” Siegfried leaned down easily, hooking his hand below Percival’s arm. He pulled the half-drunk prince up to his feet. Percival growled, and both his hands flailed to grab Siegfried’s biceps, his fingers digging into firm muscle for balance.

“I think I should practice one more round,” Siegfried eyed Percival’s flushed face contemplatively and eased Percival’s hands off him. He slipped a patient arm around Percival’s half-bent waist, clapped his fingers on the latter’s hip, and with subtle force, dragged the younger man back to the middle of the music room.

“And I did warn you,” Siegfried said, leaning close to Percival’s reddened ear. “You should not drink Dalmore scotch like it’s water.”

Siegfried’s grip tightened on Percival’s waist, his fingers angled above the younger man’s hip. He lifted Percival’s arm, and with an elegantly angled elbow, grasped the latter’s hand securely. Humming a jaunty version of  _ Serenade to Spring _ under his breath, Siegfried counted to three and spun across the music room’s floor, taking Percival along with him.

Percival shook his head a bit too vigorously to get rid of the alcohol haze. Then, he realized he was led, spinning and pivoting across the polished tiles of the music room, keeping pace with a husky off-key acapella from the man holding him.

The flame-haired man shot a look about him, noticing blearily one of his hands were perched on a broad, muscular shoulder, and his other hand clasped by strong fingers. They moved in a couple of small circles and skirted into a wider one, his partner’s turns and pivots all dexterously and accurately executed. 

“Heh…” Percival mumbled under his breath. His face felt extremely hot again, and he leaned his forehead against Siegfried’s chest, his shoulders drooping tiredly. That overdose of whiskey had eventually taunted and conquered his body, and he felt as if he was floating.

“At least you’re dancing properly…”

The prince exhaled, letting out a long hiccup of air into Siegfried’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry for being stupid with my feet.”

He stared at his former captain, mouth agape at Siegfried’s confession, and then shook the spirits out of his head again.

“Forget it. You can dance just fine,” Percival muttered. He could smell the heavy tang of whiskey in his breath. “Not like you needed  _ me _ to teach you.”

“I  _ needed _ you to teach me.” Siegfried laughed at the intended sarcasm in Percival’s voice. He stopped in the middle of the music room, the pale yellow light from the chandelier above splaying down upon the two men like a spotlight. “And you still have to teach me how to speak, to hold my knife and fork and how to kiss.”

“What…?”

“Your agenda, Secretary Wales.” Siegfried reminded him matter-of-factly, his hand unlinking from Percival’s. Siegfried’s index finger moved to tap the prince’s temple. “You came up with a list of things I needed to learn for tomorrow’s ball.”

“When did I include how to kiss?” Percival snapped, his head lifting away from Siegfried’s torso and the man’s finger. Siegfried laughed, the laughter reaching into his tawny eyes, and his eyebrows raised in mock horror. 

“And stop calling me your secretary. There’s no one around right now!” 

“So, we do not have that lesson?” Siegfried’s voice was deep with faux surprise and genuine amusement. 

“You don’t need it.” Came the irate reply. Ah, his head hurt, trying to think of what else he had put on that godforsaken agenda. “There’s no one you need to kiss.”

“No one, hmm?” Siegfried smiled, his eyes shaded with mirth. Percival grumbled something unintelligible. 

Percival felt as if his head was going to burst. The whiskey was playing a grand game of havoc with his mind and his gut. He thoroughly regretted gulping down one full tumbler of alcohol. He pressed his face into his former captain’s chest again and breathed deeply.

“No one,” Percival mumbled, his mouth muffled by the fabric of Siegfried’s shirt. His lungs felt tight, and he attempted to pull more air into his body, each of his breaths filled half with the cool evening air and the other half with Siegfried’s intriguing citrusy musk. 

“What a pity,” Siegfried murmured, his tawny eyes downcast, and his expression was genuinely crestfallen. “I would have liked to learn how to be affectionate.” 

_ It would make the job a little easier. _ Siegfried thought, his eyes trailing to the chandelier above, a couple of thoughts crowding into his mind.

“Damn it,” The prince reeled back, and grabbed Siegfried’s shirt in a fistful. He yanked the latter towards him and slammed his lips onto Siegfried’s mouth. The chestnut-haired man’s eyes blinked once, his tawny sights widening as he was kissed quite aggressively. Percival jerked himself away and swiped a wayward strand of spit across his lower lip with the back of his hand.

The flame-haired man sputtered crankily, “If it’s kissing, that’s all you need to know.”

Siegfried made a low rumble of disapproval in his throat as Percival pulled away, his thin lips wrinkling into a sour grimace.

“That’s not exactly the lesson I had in mind, Secretary Wales.”

Siegfried placed his hands on Percival’s shoulders, crumpling the fabric of the prince’s shirt. His palms pressured the latter’s arms, slowly flexing his fingers over the rigid curve of muscles beneath Percival’s shirt sleeves.

“Percival.”

“What?” He glared up at the sound of his name. 

“Do it again.”

“What?” Percival’s voice teetered into a lilting question, ruffled and riled.

“Kiss me. Properly.”

Siegfried’s request was good-humored and amicable, with curious desire rather than insistent demand.

“Aren’t you so stubborn, wanting your way all the time,” Percival replied acidly.

Percival’s palms flattened against Siegfried’s chest, the tweed fabric of the man’s vest rough against his skin. He bristled, staring in aggravation as he stood, face to face, with his former captain. 

“It is not about me wanting my way all the time. Don’t forget our agreement, Percival.” Siegfried corrected, continuing to hold that slip of a smile on his mouth, his head pleasingly canting to the side. “You’ve promised to help me with my mission.”

Percival’s brow tightened, his mouth twisting in annoyance.

“And you’ve sworn, on your honor, to complete all of my requests.”

Percival remained very quiet. The hair on his nape prickled, and his breath hammered in his lungs in uneven surges. The whiskey was making another merry round about his body. It was getting rather difficult to debate with Siegfried’s logic.

“Fine...” Guilted, Percival acceded unwillingly, finding it impossible to maintain his usual cavalier veneer. His gaze focused on the firm contours of Siegfried’s mouth, the man’s full lips impossibly and perpetually kept in that faint smile.

_ Why am I even doing this? _

Percival groaned inwardly. A small voice to the left of his head offered a mischievous excuse.

_ It must be the whiskey talking. _

Blast that whiskey!

He brought his hands to the edge of Siegfried’s jaw and leaned forward, angling his head. Siegfried must have shaved this morning. He could hardly feel any stubble as he stroked the underside of the man’s jaw.

Siegfried’s head tilted to one side, mirroring the same angle as Percival’s. He was grinning a little too eagerly.

Percival snapped inside his head. 

“No, you turn the other way.” He grabbed Siegfried’s neck, twisting the man’s face to the other side, repeating impatiently. “The other way… the other way...”

Percival tried to angle his face again towards his former captain and realized it was not working out as he thought. Siegfried was as tall as he was and bigger. 

Siegfried winced. Percival let out a half a curse, realizing his poor demeanor and that his fingers were digging into Siegfried’s neck muscles. He wriggled out of Siegfried’s clasp and grabbed the latter’s hand, staggering as he dragged Siegfried back to the chairs facing the bay windows. 

“Sit down and stay still,” Percival muttered, pushing Siegfried into one of the chairs. The larger man seemed bewildered, but only for a moment, and his perpetually pleasant smile returned to his mouth. Percival gripped the arms of the chair tightly and faced Siegfried, front to front. The prince bent a knee to balance on the edge of the armchair’s seat cushion and curved his body downwards. Now he could satisfactorily look down on Siegfried’s ridiculously smiling face. 

Siegfried’s chest lifted, his torso expanding as he breathed in, deeply and expectantly.

Percival put his hand on Siegfried’s jaw again, exerting tension to turn the man’s face to the correct position. His head angled down to fit his mouth over Siegfried’s. The tiny hairs on the back of Percival’s neck lifted again in reflexive excitement.

An excitement he was not expecting to feel, splintered his head as his mouth descended on Siegfried’s lips.

_ Damn it. _ His inner voice reverberated raggedly into his ears. His mouth tugged at Siegfried’s upper lip and then the lower one, sinking into the feeling of wet pressure and firm flesh. Percival found himself struggling to press closer, sensations screaming past him in all directions.

_ That was not the whiskey. _

He was kissed in return, enthused with lips, teeth, and a tongue that tore past and slipped inside his mouth. Percival’s fingers clamored for grip, and he found himself twisting those fingers into soft brown locks of hair tightly. Unconsciously, he lifted his other leg and bent it, pushing his knee between the chair’s manchette and Siegfried’s thigh. 

It was not a kiss anymore. 

It was a possession, and it raved through Percival’s mind in a dark haze. A heated swell rose to his groin as he sat on Siegfried’s stomach, his entire weight straddled across the other man’s lower body. 

The armchair creaked dully beneath them. Wetness smeared the sides of Percival’s mouth as their kisses grew deeper and wanting. His hands cupped Siegfried’s warm nape; his fingers continued to play tangles with the man’s thick hair.

Something snapped in Percival’s head again. 

He lurched back, pulling his mouth away from Siegfried’s, his ass nearly slipping off the latter’s thighs. Siegfried caught him swiftly, his large hand clamping around Percival’s waist. The prince growled in surprise, his body jerking forward, his hands slamming heavily against Siegfried’s chest.

Head lowered, Percival panted shallowly, taking this moment to steady the wild beat of his heart and his breath. He noticed Siegfried’s other hand was still resting on the armchair’s handle, unmoving.

His earlier instruction to Siegfried echoed around his head.

_ Sit down and stay still. _

“Are you alright, Percival?” Siegfried asked, keeping his hand braced behind Percival’s back. The man’s expression hinted at worry, and maybe slight remorse for having pushed his protege a little too far. Siegfried craned his neck, his eyes shifting to Percival’s profile.

“Your ears are red,” Siegfried remarked wonderingly. His hand left Percival’s and lifted his fingers towards that flushed claret skin, intent on checking if the prince was having an alcohol rash. 

“I am fine.” Percival attested sourly, his arm rising to push Siegfried’s hand away and, with effort, evicted himself from Siegfried’s thighs. He nearly stumbled as he tried to stand next to the armchair. “And I’m going to bed.”

Percival touched his ear, uncomfortably rubbing his fingers over heated skin. Siegfried was still seated in the armchair, his hair tousled and mussed, those chestnut locks disarrayed over his shoulders. The man’s lips looked distinctively swollen, stung even. Percival stared, drawn to the curve of the man’s wide semi-parted mouth. 

Siegfried’s expression harbored a bemused shade of serenity that challenged the prince, a quietly issued proposition to Percival to claim the man sitting before him.

Percival gritted his teeth.

“You should sleep early,” Percival muttered, taking a step back, breaking the locking gaze between him and Siegfried. “You have an appointment with Minister Helbert tomorrow.”

“Ah, right. Minister Helbert.” Siegfried nodded, gathering himself to his feet, charm and magnetism, giving way to business and efficiency. The chestnut-haired man straightened himself to his full height, stretching his back barely, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Finally, we get to meet the man we are looking for.”


	2. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival attempts to spy on Siegfried in the Duchy of Dalmore.

_ Three weeks ago, before they danced. _

He was caught.

Caught and cornered to be correct.

The central marketplace of the Duchy of Dalmore spread like an uncontrolled surge of stalls, shops, winding pavements, and people. Lost children wailed for their mothers. Perspiring men with pushcarts trudged past, cursing anyone who got in their way. Shopkeepers shouted offers to customers, a cacophony of deals and bargains heckling from their mouths every other hour. The salty odor of sweat and hard work mingled with the fragrance of flowers and the tang of spices in the air. 

It was flamboyant and fantastic, the central marketplace and crowds of people sailed past the tall, black-haired man. The townspeople took glances at his face, and his unkempt attire, and brushed him off before going about their day's business.

Percival towered above most of the crowds around him. His eyes swept to each stretch of stalls and shops, trying to sight a chestnut-haired head, a cloak of deep-blue perhaps. People bumped against him, and the rancid smell of body odor seeped into his nose. Disgusted, he gripped the battered longsword tightly against his hip, attempting to move forward. 

Elbows shoved themselves against his back. Someone trod on his boot. He growled, swinging his head around to look for the culprit and was met with a faceless sea of faces.

Percival's eyes darted wildly. Did he lose Siegfried? He craned his head, his gaze skimming across bobbing heads of yellow, red, black, and brown. 

Brown. 

He lurched forward, pushing against two plump women in his way and frantically chased in the direction where the brown-haired man went. Behind him, one of the women shouted her language heavy with expletives. He ignored her, skidding into an alley full of multi-colored drapes.

Oily fumes curled out from the drapes, cloaking the alley in a translucent gray mist. Large grill-pans of roasting meat lined the lane, the heat melting the dye in his hair. A streak of black rivered down his sweating temple, marking his skin. Percival choked, clasping his hand on his nose as he ran through great billows of charcoal smoke.

Siegfried had stopped moving. He was standing outside a squat, white-walled building right at the end of the cul-de-sac, looking up at the closed windows on its second story. Percival held his breath and slipped behind a pillar next to a battered brick wall.

He sneaked a glance, making sure that the other man was still there.

His former captain turned, his gaze flung far-away down the alley, towards where Percival hid.

Siegfried was smiling in his direction.

Percival swung his head back immediately, knocking his cheek against the hard stone of the pillar. He pressed himself against the adjacent wall, attempting to keep out of sight. 

He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, not daring to take a second look. Thoughts scurried through his mind as he hastily reviewed his actions for the past week.

Percival knew he had kept himself hidden all this while, as he tailed and kept tabs on Siegfried's movements throughout the duchy. Siegfried's days and nights were all but mundane and typical. His mornings were spent visiting the Dalmorean countryside or the city's public spaces. His afternoons in the Ambassador's office. His evenings, either a party or a social dinner, or a meeting with ministers or the Duke.

He had relayed all the names of the ministers Siegfried met back to Wales. His elder brother had found nothing suspicious, and Siegfried's unimaginative schedule only served to fan Aglovale's ire. Percival's daily reports became shorter, lesser in frequency, and eventually, there was nothing else to inform his elder brother except the usual business of the day.

After a long time, Percival decided to take a quick look around the pillar. 

Siegfried was gone. 

The sun was setting as well. Shopkeepers kept their wares, and the market crowds lessened along with the din of daytime. Percival rubbed his legs, slapping the numbness out of his muscles. Dusk had crept around him, seeping long shadowy fingers into the alleyway. 

He stepped away from the pillar, stretching his legs as he made significant strides towards the building at the cul-de-sac. The doors were closed. There was no shop sign. The porch was kept clean, and the walls looked as if they had a fresh coat of paint. Thick blue blinds drawn over the two windows cut into the shopfront. 

Percival wrinkled his brow. Cautiously, he pressed down on the handle of the left door. It eased open, swinging in a wide arc silently. 

It was dark inside. A couple of lightwells fixed into the low ceiling led cones of dust-ladened light down towards the ground. Percival walked in, moving cautiously between two long display tables filled haphazardly with trinkets and objets d'art. The shop was as musty as it was claustrophobic. The ceiling seemed to dip lower with each step he took, and the air too grew heavier in his lungs. Towards the end of the shop, an array of wooden folding panels formed a barrier, stopping him from moving further. 

He heard voices, male voices — the deep-set voice of one, and the softer, dulcet tones of another. Percival hunkered down behind a panel, unlatching his sword from his belt and gripped it with one hand. He leaned in as close as he could, struggling to listen to the conversation.

One of the voices lifted, loud enough for Percival to hear. There was a musical lilt to its softness.

"There is no reason for us to take this risk, your Excellency."

There was no reply apart from a rhythmic tapping of a boot on the ground. Percival drew in a breath. He shifted himself, putting weight on his left foot to angle himself closer to the voices. Then, he noticed a small cleft between two panels, sufficient for a quick look.

Percival bent his knees slowly, curling his body into a crouch as he inched towards the tiny opening. So focused was him on positioning himself that he did not realize the soft shuffle of footsteps behind the panel he was next to.

And before he could react, the wooden panel came crashing down on him.

Percival shouted a curse. His arm swung above his head, reflexively shielding himself as more panels smashed down on him. The sheer weight of the boards flattened him to the floor. His sword was knocked out of his grip, and it skidded across the shop's floor. 

His sword skidded across the shop's floor, knocked out of his grip.

He heard a loud shuffle of heavy boots. He coughed, trying to twist his body out, his ears straining to decipher the sudden assault of voices converging above him.

"Your Excellency. We should kill him."

The boards were pulled away, and the splinters from the broken wood dug into his shirt, tearing at his skin. He gritted his teeth, pulling words together for a fiery blast when he realized his sword was not in his hand. Just as he was about to flip himself upright to throw a punch, the low whistling sound of steel folded around his ears.

A knee slammed heavily into his midriff, edging sharply up his ribs.

Forced flat on his back on the ground, Percival bit his lip. He swallowed a groan of pain, unwilling to satisfy his assaulter. His chin was gripped roughly, his face yanked forward.

A pair of deep blue eyes glared down at him, with an intent to murder. Percival's gaze faltered and fell, his eyes barely widening as he sighted the slim, shining curve of a katana edged close to his neck.


	3. Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siegfried questions Percival's motives.

"Can I kill him now?" 

His assailant glowered at him. Percival stared upwards, sighting a pair of gray-tipped furry ears that arched upright from messy waves of black hair. The erune dug his bony knee into Percival's stomach as the katana inched lower to the man's throat.

Percival swallowed, clenching his teeth. He heard steps, the footfalls of a heavy-set man, and another pair of steps, lighter.

Percival turned his head to the sound of the steps. A tall man, broad-shouldered, had walked out from behind the remaining panels. He paused in his footsteps, his hand moving to cup his chin thoughtfully as he met Percival's gaze. The dusty beads of light fell across his features, a face that Percival knew well.

The erune hissed, angling the katana down, nicking the man's skin. A bead of blood welled up beneath the blade.

"Move, and I'll cut through you."

"You're not killing anyone, Eliya," Siegfried ordered. "Step away." There was a sternness in his voice, a tone Percival found ironically nostalgic. 

The erune reluctantly stood, fluidly drawing his blade away from Percival's neck. The weapon was sheathed into a midnight-black scabbard.

Percival let out a groan as the erune's weight left him. He was sure his lower ribs were broken. Propping himself upright to a sitting position, he heard a few bones pop. His face felt dusty, and his neck ached in several spots. Siegfried had crouched down next to him, his face a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

"Percival, why are you here?"

Percival clamped his lips tight into a thin line. The erune with the katana had moved away to position himself behind Siegfried, his eyes coldly locked onto Percival. 

"Perhaps you should answer that question, your Highness."

Percival turned his head in the direction of that musical voice. Another erune took his place next to the one with the katana, behind Siegfried.  Both stood almost at Siegfried's height, perhaps from his sitting position, they seemed to loom. This one watched him with pity; pity one might give to an animal before slaughter. Messy black hair framed the second erune's sharp, tanned face, and the same gray-tipped furred ears sprung from his head. He, too, wore a katana that hung from his belt, the curved scabbard a silvery-white. And in his left hand, he held a battered longsword with a rusty hilt.

"Percival?"

Siegfried's voice was calm, still curious, but not perturbed. He rested his forearms on his thighs and clasped his hands together as he waited. Percival shook his head, a lock of black straying from his carefully pomaded hair.

"I can't tell you here." He muttered, his eyes trailing towards the twin erunes behind Siegfried. His tone was gritty, slightly anxious, and his stomach turned with an uncomfortable mix of emotions. Eliya snorted vulgarly at Percival's reply, his hand moving to grip the hilt of his katana. 

"Just let me kill him. He's a spy. We don't need his kind around here to mess things up."

Siegfried rose from his crouching position. He stood straight and turned away, followed by the two erunes. Percival pulled at his lips pensively the moment that Siegfried's attention left him. He contemplated getting up and sprinting out of the building. Then he realized he would not be able to escape, his lower ribs hurt like hell the moment he tried to turn his body. 

And, his sword was in the hands of that erune with the soft voice. 

Siegfried addressed the twins. He spoke quickly and firmly, his voice low and commanding. Eliya was completely quiet, his lip curling downwards in anger at Siegfried. Percival could make out words that were barely discernible and yet insufficient to draw knowledge. His name, however, was mentioned twice, along with his elder brother's. 

Finally, Siegfried spoke no more.

A dulcet voice broke the silence. The erune with the white katana bowed, his hand moving to push against his brother's back, forcing him to do the same. Eliya glowered and grudgingly followed his twin's demand. 

"We understand, your Excellency."

Percival heard the light footfalls once more. The soft-voiced one appeared next to him. Tall and slender, the erune's sharp smile was mottled by the dying light in the room.

"Your Highness." The erune's mouth curved, showing a pair of sharp canines. He offered the old longsword back to Percival, with both hands. "And I apologize for my younger brother's disrespect. He is usually well-behaved."

Percival accepted his sword, with muttered gratitude and a disturbed expression. He had questions, and it bothered him deeply. The identities of the two erunes by Siegfried's side, as well as how much his former captain knew.

"Can you stand, Percival?"

He felt a hand move to grip under his left bicep, gently urging him to his feet. Percival struggled for a moment, wincing involuntarily as he attempted to stand. That hand around his arm tightened. 

"I've got you."

Siegfried's other hand clasped around Percival's right arm, holding the prince upright.

"Who are they?" Percival mumbled, unable to help his curiosity and deeply disappointed somewhat that a scrawny creature like Eliya could leave him with some debilitating bruises. Siegfried was still holding him tight, vice-like as he made a move to walk out of the building. 

The two erunes followed. The soft-voiced one spoke in a low tone to the other who was savagely snarling under his breath.

"They work for the King's court," Siegfried replied as he guided the younger man out onto the building's porch. The sun had set entirely, and they walked out into semi-darkness. The alley was not lit by the duchy's main grid of gas-lighting and borrowed light from the next road spilled in weak tea-colored triangles into the cul-de-sac. 

"King? King Carl?" 

"Yes, it is indeed King Carl, your Highness." 

The soft-voiced erune answered with a small laugh and slipped in front of the two men gracefully onto the cobblestone road. He looked for a moment down the alley, his face smoothing into an expressionless mask. 

"I've never seen them before." Percival was genuinely surprised. He watched the soft-voiced erune stand in the middle of the alley, unmoving. "What is he looking for?"

"He's looking for things you can't see, your  _ Highness _ ." Eliya snapped, his voice a low, sarcastic hiss. He prowled towards his brother.

"If you had managed to discover Arith and Eliya, then they would have failed at their job and been dismissed." Siegfried chuckled. He paused and released his grip on the younger man. "I doubt Eliya had given you a broken bone, but we'll do another check. Just to be safe."

Siegfried's fingers moved to prod down Percival's back.

"Siegfried." He glanced at his former captain, his mind brooding and sullen. 

"Hmm?"

Percival opened his mouth to ask a question. Then he clamped his mouth shut, and his lips pulled thin. He shook his head and started a step forward before openly grimacing in pain. Siegfried tugged at the younger man's shirt, frowning a little as the around Percival's waist and rolled one end of the tattered shirt up.

Siegfried clicked his tongue softly. 

Wooden splinters from the broken panels had lodged themselves into the back of Percival's waist, next to his tail-bone. The splinters were unfortunately wedged between muscles and ligaments. A deep-seated bruise was starting to radiate in patchy purplish-red across the prince's skin. 

"What?" 

Percival growled, not liking the sound Siegfried had made. He felt the fabric of his shirt pulled down again, over the part which hurt.

"There are some flesh wounds, but it is not as bad as I thought," Siegfried said, adjusting his hold around Percival's shoulder. "We should go."

Percival took a quick look around. The twins were gone, leaving him and Siegfried in the alley. Siegfried started to walk, keeping his hold on Percival firmly secure. The younger man's steps faltered now and then, and the bone in his knee popped a little more than usual. 

They walked a while in silence, and all he heard was Siegfried's steady breaths and the muffled sounds that came with a city that had slept half the night away. Percival remembered the first question Siegfried asked of him abruptly, back in the building, and that the foul-mouthed erune called him a spy. He dwelled on his thoughts, pensive, unsure. Perhaps, it was not the best time to start talking. 

Siegfried stopped right at the neck of the alley before it curved into a broader lane that led to the main road.

"We'll wait here. Arith will bring the carriage around."

"Carriage?" 

"We are not walking back home, Percival."

"Home?" Percival eyed Siegfried suspiciously. Surely his former captain did not figure out that particular safehouse Aglovale had secured in Dalmore.

"Yes, home. Would there be somewhere else we should be going?" Siegfried replied, peering at Percival perplexedly, his eyebrows arching in question. 

The question caught him by surprise, and unconsciously, Percival shook his head.

Siegfried seemed bemused once more. Percival swallowed back an anxious breath. He felt pathetic, cornered even, and a little mistrustful of his former captain.

The churning creak of large wooden wheels broke his thoughts as a small, dull dark green carriage, drawn by two black horses, came into view. The soft-voiced erune was in the driver's seat, the reins of the two steeds held firmly in one hand. 

Where was the erune's twin? Percival took a side glance to the back of the carriage, his face frowning.

"Eliya is not here, your Highness." Arith leaned back and unlatched the carriage's door with his freed hand, swinging it open for entry. The erune grinned, dimples forming faintly on either side of his mouth. "If you are so concerned, though, he was sent to retrieve your belongings from Halion Street. Number Five, I believe."

Percival blinked, balked even. He turned to Siegfried with widened eyes, and his mouth dropped almost accusingly. His former captain still merely smiled and patted Percival's right shoulder. 

"Get in the carriage, Percival. We will talk inside."

Reluctantly, he entered the vehicle and took his seat, finding the softness of the leather-wrapped cushion irritatingly comfortable. Percival sat very upright, fighting against his desire to lean back to ease his sore muscles into the seat.

The carriage set off at running speed the moment Siegfried closed the cab door. The man settled himself into the seat facing Percival, his eyes momentarily looking out at the flashes of lighted cityscape. The last stretch of urbanization fled them, and the carriage's wheels jostled over a roughly paved road that was sheltered by rows of tall trees.

The wind had gusted in rapid breaths through the open windows of the carriage. Thunder rolled across the sky, far-away and demanding. Moments later, a flash of lightning split the darkness inside. He was unable to take his sight off Siegfried for the first half of their journey, catching himself slipping glances now and then at the man's profile.  Then, he stared down at the scuffed tops of his boots, his fingers tightening and curling against his closed palms.

Percival knew they were on the way towards the Ambassador's manor. 

And he knew this road well enough.

Another flash of lightning snapped across the looming clouds, the sharp sound drawing Percival's attention to the carriage's window. A dull, metallic smell drifted in from outside, prickling his nose. It was the scent of impending rain. He stared tensely at the landscape shuttling by him, unwilling to look anywhere else, especially at Siegfried. His mind had started to speculate wildly, and his fingers clenched deeply into his palms.

A low, unhurried question jolted him out of his thoughts.

"Percival, why are you here?"

His former captain was eyeing him intently. 

Was Siegfried allowing him a chance to explain himself?

Or to come up with a fantastic story or perhaps, an elaborate lie?  Percival's brow started to knot, and his hands clenched into anxious fists on his knees. 

Or should he just tell the truth?

Maybe Siegfried already knew the truth.

"I was sent to watch you." 

"Ah."

It was an exclamation that relayed nothing of his former captain's state of mind. And it was as bland as it was evenly issued. Siegfried rubbed his lower jaw a little and crossed his legs. He leaned forward, and his hand gestured faintly in a circular wave.

"Is this Aglovale's intention?"

Percival bit his lower lip. Silence guarded his mouth, and his chest felt constricted. The carriage had turned. It veered off the paved road, and he could feel the seat bumping below his thighs. The horses' galloping grew frantic, thudding, and slapping along the hard surface of the road. The smell of wet earth drifted through the windows as the rain started to fall.

"My elder brother was worried about your presence in Dalmore."

Siegfried's hand returned to rub his lower chin after Percival's carefully weighted answer. He looked out to the shifting landscape of rain-swept trees outside the carriage window. And it was a moment before he returned his attention, with a greater purpose in his posture, on Percival once more.

"Did I give him any reason to be so anxious that he has to send you to Dalmore?"

Percival's expression withered. 

He did not expect to be seated here, in a bouncing carriage, and defending himself to his former captain. He did not even expect to be caught like a child stealing candy in the first place. Now, it was likely that he would have to return to Wales and admit his failure in espionage to his brother, and right now, risk ruining his relationship with Siegfried if he was not honest. 

Siegfried waited. He waited, and the only movement he made was to pull down the blinds of the carriage's windows. Both men now sat in darkness as the carriage hurtled onwards through the lashing rain. 

Percival's fingers gripped the edge of his seat, and his shoulders hunched. The pain in his back sharpened acutely as he leaned forward, his voice catching low in his throat.

"He thinks you're a threat to Wales."

Siegfried laughed.

Percival was glad it was too dark to see, and he lowered his head. Siegfried laughed again, sincere and sympathetic. And that laughter winded down to a soft chuckle and, finally, a subtle silence.  Percival felt a hand clasp his shoulder, coaxing him to look up. Momentarily, he saw a tinge of worry crease Siegfried's face before the carriage's sudden halt took both their attentions. Siegfried's hand fell from the prince's shoulder and back to his side.

He heard the harsh, short whinnying of the horses as the door latch clicked. The slim tanned fingers of their driver slipped in, swinging the door open.

"Your Excellency, your Highness."

Arith stood by the side of the opened door, holding it wide. The erune was utterly drenched, his hair clinging to the sides of his cheeks in dark curly tendrils, droplets of rain sleek on his exposed shoulders and back. He looked like a wild forest creature who'd found treasure, and he grinned widely at Percival.

The erune bowed low as he held the door wide for the men to exit. Percival's face tightened as he pulled himself upright to step out of the carriage, his motions jerky and hampered. 

The manor's colonnade facade and arched glass doors were reflected off rain puddles scattered across the slate-stone driveway. Percival had seen this place many times from far, watching Siegfried work in the second-story office.  Small lanterns lit up every facet and angle of the manor. The lights gleamed steadily, rivers of gold against the white brickwork and decorative motifs on the pediments of every single window. It was a pretty building by day and an imposing one at night, and he rather liked its design.

"I'll have Lady Paulyne start the baths, your Excellency, and prepare the medicine box."

Percival glanced behind him at Siegfried, who was stepping out of the carriage. The man nodded in silent assent to the erune's keenly proposed suggestion. Arith then latched the carriage door shut and bowed. He snuck Percival a long, perceptive look.

"And your Highness does not have to hide the sword anymore." The erune rubbed a finger to his temple thoughtfully, his eyes falling on the battered longsword held in Percival's right hand. "You are safe here."

Percival's eyebrows raised, stunned. Eliya's words about his twin's ability, when they were back in the alley, came to his mind. He had questions, but something clipped his tongue.

"Dinner will be served to my lords after the bath," Arith said, snapping the bubble of silence between them. He bowed to Percival and moved to the front of the carriage. Twining the reins of the horses in one hand, the erune departed, walking towards a row of low buildings on the left of the manor.

"Wait!" Percival protested hoarsely, now turning to face Siegfried, his face indignant, his stature frozen and defensive, "I can deal with this myself, there's no need for me to be here."

Percival bit his lip. There were just too many surprises tonight for him to fathom and understand. He needed to get away, or at least consult Algovale on his next move. Yet,  Siegfried shrugged serenely, taking a few large steps forward. His leather shoes splashed into the puddles on the driveway.

The man placed an insistent hand on the prince's tensed shoulder. 

"You're already here. Take a bath, wash your hair, and I'll fix that back injury of yours."


	4. Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siegfried offers an employee position in the Ambassador's office to Percival.

“This is a bath?”

Percival tottered for a moment, his hand gripping a marble column to steady his feet. The mist-ladened air was warm, and it relieved the soreness of his muscles. But he was not expecting this ostentatious display of wealth in the manor’s bath chamber. 

“Well,” Siegfried strolled up next to him, one hand clasped loosely on his toweled hips and the other holding a large medicine box. The man sounded almost sheepishly apologetic about the place, “It came with the house, and this job.”

The manor’s bath chamber stretched across half an entire floor by itself. Built into an extension attached to the third-level of the manor’s right-wing, the chamber was a rectangular affair of lavish excess. Glass-paned windows stretched in a curve across one of the walls, offering a view of the star-scattered Dalmorean night-sky. 

Privilege as royalty had exposed Percival to a few indulgences back in Wales. Baths were taken in large ceramic tubs, in sizable rooms that looked out to greenery and blue skies. The best toiletries were provided, of course. His elder brother was fastidiously particular about everything being efficient and effective; and not wasteful. Thus, the rooms of the royals were no fancier than those of the kingdom’s guests. 

This bath chamber was much too extravagant with its twin pool-like baths and steaming waters that smelled like expensive herbs and salt. The floor was inlaid with large square-cut marble tiles, seamlessly fitted against each other. He remembered at one of Aglovale’s round-table meetings about Dalmore’s economic potential, and it was not all that positive. Did the Duke secure some investments which escaped his elder brother’s watchful eye? He must inform Aglovale once he was alone. 

If he was, indeed, left alone.

“Percival,” Siegfried’s fingers tapped at the prince’s elbow, pulling Percival from his thoughts. “Sit on the edge. I’ll get the splinters out of your wound.”

He startled at the sound of his name, hastily clearing his mind. Slight aggravation gnawed at him. Despite his unwillingness, Percival allowed himself to be led to the bath.

Percival balked at his reflection in the still waters of the bath, at the sight of his hair and the half-melted black dye on tangled red locks. As he lowered himself to sit on the edge, his legs sank into the pool. The tiles were warmed, and there in the water, a soothing undercurrent massaged his feet. Between the bath’s edge and the floor was a thin, hollowed perimeter where excess water flowed in. 

He must have looked like a fool to Siegfried.

Condensation from the steam in the chamber started to cling to Percival’s skin, and his chest was soon stained gray from the dye slipping off his hair. He grew drowsy, lulled by the comforting heat and that tranquil nightscape beyond the windows. 

Percival did not hear the clatter of the medicine box opening as Siegfried settled on the floor behind him, nor the verbal warning about the pain. He felt a large hand bracing his back, and he was pushed forward.

“Damn it!”

Percival yelled, one hand springing backward to grip the edge of the tiles to stop himself from falling forward. A sharp, stinging pain flared from his back, shooting up his spine and wrenching his waist. Percival twisted around, snarling like a wounded lion. His eyes, a livid crimson, glared at Siegfried.

Siegfried held up a pair of metal tweezers and caught between its shining tips, was a long bloodied splinter.

Percival drew in a very long breath.

The skewer-thin strip of sharp wood was dropped into a small container within the medicine box. Siegfried swiped a small cloth on the tweezer’s tips and placed his hand on Percival’s back again. 

“Seven more to go. Look to the front, Percival.” He patted the back of the prince’s head, turning Percival towards the windows. After a couple more growls and curses from the younger man, Siegfried let out a sigh as he pressed a warm towel against Percival’s back. 

“Are we done?” Percival’s shoulders twitched impatiently.

“Almost.” Siegfried removed the towel and folded another one against Percival’s back again, “Flesh wounds should heal quickly. Especially with this water.” 

“This water?” Percival sounded both irked and intrigued at the same time. He watched their reflections in the windows for a moment before staring at the bath.

“Mmm. Yes, waters from the mountains right over there, and a bit of magic.” Satisfied that the wounds no longer bled or wept, Siegfried took away the second towel and dumped that too into the medicine box. Percival heard a clatter behind him. He almost looked up, but his attention strayed to a tray of large bottles and jars that had appeared by his side. He picked up one of the bottles, uncapping it. There was a thick, light turquoise liquid inside, and it smelt medicinal and woodsy.

“What are these?” He glanced up, turning his head to address Siegfried.

Instead of Siegfried, the smiling face of a black-haired erune beamed at him from above a pile of fluffy white towels and folded clothing. The erune was barefooted, his large feet splaying flat on the gleaming marble tiles.

“Shampoo, your Highness, for your hair. It gets rid of dirt and dye quite well. There’s soap too. Dalmore is very famous for its herbal soaps.”

“What in the…” Percival gritted his teeth and swore instead under his breath. He nearly dropped the bottle, and a bit of shampoo spilled out, sloshing over his hand. 

Eliya? Was that Eliya? Or the other one - he could not quite remember the other one’s name. He stared at the tall, dark-haired erune with the towels, who was still all smiles at him, “Why are you here? Where’s Siegfried?”

“I’m Arith.” The erune continued to smile, his deep-blue eyes curving and his dimples twinkling as if he read Percival’s thoughts.

“Siegfried!” Percival yelled, slamming the bottle back into the tray and tried to get up. The erune backed away amusedly and strolled to a low bench that separated the two baths. He placed the towels and garments on the bench, and turned to regard the prince.

“His Excellency was putting away the medicine box. He will join you in a moment.” Arith informed, and grinned, showing a row of sharp white teeth. “It’s best you get into the bath so the water can heal your wound.”

The erune moved back to Percival and prodded the prince’s shoulder. The movement was small, yet oddly forceful. Percival found himself falling into the middle of the bath with a loud splash, his butt landing firmly on the bottom. Arith knelt swiftly behind him, and the erune slipped his hand into the waters.

“What are you doing?” Percival’s eyes grew wide as the erune’s arm vanished under the lapping waves.

“You won’t be needing this inside the bath, your Highness.” Arith grabbed one end of Percival’s towel and yanked it away from his hips. He collected the dripping towel in his arms and bowed to the horrified prince.

“And, your Highness, don’t worry about that dye in your hair dirtying the bath. The water will cleanse itself. Oh, and please feel free to use the shampoo and the soap. Ah, your Excellency.”

Arith greeted Siegfried blithely before stepping away from the bath. He bowed to the chestnut-haired man who had returned, “I’ve brought clothes and clean towels as you’ve instructed. His Highness needs to stay exactly one hour in the bath, and the wounds will close.”

The erune paused, taking a quick look at Siegfried’s shoulder. “You will need another hour as well, your Excellency.”

Siegfried had nodded, both in approval and agreement. With a quick movement, he undid the towel around his waist and placed it on top of the soaking-wet one the erune was holding. His voice dropped a notch, “Eliya has returned. Go see to _that_.”

“Siegfried!” Percival managed to pull himself up and now stood thigh-deep in the steaming-hot water, his face red and glowering. Then he realized his former captain was naked. 

And he was too, naked, technically. 

And there was Arith, standing here, with an armful of towels.

It was not the first time they’d seen each other unclothed, and there were a couple of occasions when the knights had to shower in the same facility. But Percival swallowed hard this time, unsure of what to say next and blamed the heat in his face on the hot water. 

“Of course, your Excellency.” Arith acceded, his canines peeking out from his lips. He sneaked a glance at Percival’s flustered face. “I bid you a good bath, your Highness.”

Percival swore he could hear Arith snigger as the erune glided gracefully out of the bath chamber. Siegfried had moved to the bath and sunk himself right in the water in front of Percival. The prince immediately took a step backward, the water sloshing around him and scalding the underside of his butt. 

“Sit down, Percival. You’ll need an hour in the bath,” Siegfried lifted his hand out of the water, gesturing at the irate prince. Percival wanted to protest, but he sat nonetheless, waves of hot water closing in, lapping at his shoulders. 

“Are you even sure they work for King Carl?” He scowled, trying to ease his butt along the bath’s floor towards where Siegfried sat. The larger man’s eyes were semi-closed. Small, steaming waves lapped against Siegfried’s chest as he leaned against the bath’s edge. 

Percival scowled, “I’m positive they work for a demon.”

Siegfried opened one eye slowly at Percival’s comment and watched the prince settle next to him. 

“They do work for King Carl,” Siegfried said empathically, sending small waves rippling across the bath’s surface as he stretched his arms forward, exposing bare shoulders. Then, he arched his back slightly, and his hand moved to take a shampoo bottle from the tray, “You should get that dye off your hair.”

Siegfried placed the bottle on the bath’s edge, his tongue clicking softly against his teeth.

“You’ll get used to them. Arith and Eliya are very capable.” 

“I doubt.”

Siegfried’s mild assurance did not allay nor alleviate Percival’s irritation. The chestnut-haired man watched Percival for a moment before leaning back again, closing his eyes.

Percival stared at the windows, their panes misted with water droplets. Stars shone where the mist had dried, and the round rim of a rising moon glimmered through one far corner of the windows. He took his attention away from the scenery and turned to Siegfried, a question rising to his lips.

The man was sitting upright, his back straight and flat against the bath’s wall. His eyes were closed. Percival frowned. Then, the prince’s gaze fell upon a freshly scabbed wound that seemed to crescent from the middle of Siegfried’s back, across his clavicle, and towards his sternum. And it particularly stood out among the scars that were on the man’s chest. Percival craned his head a little further forward, curious about the extent of the injury, but Siegfried’s back was firmly pressed against the wall.

Percival wondered what manner of beast or human could have landed such an injury on his former captain. Curiosity tickled his tongue, urging his previous question from his mind. Maybe he should calm down and wash his hair instead.

He grabbed the bottle from the bath’s edge, tilting the contents into his hands, and started to clean the dye from his hair. Suds slid down his neck and into the bath, the grayish froth vanishing immediately the moment they broke the water’s surface. 

It was all quite fascinating. Percival swiped at his neck, cleaning the remaining bubbles away, and discovered that he could twist his waist now without much pain.

Siegfried seemed to have woken from his nap, stretching his neck to one side and then the other. He lifted a hand out of the water to rub at the muscles along the curved scab, his eyes narrowing as his fingers touched a pain-point.

“Who did that to you?”

Percival’s question came low and concerned. He shifted in the water, turning his face towards Siegfried, “That injury. Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Siegfried replied with a detached assurance. The man’s fingers slid under his damp hair and pinched a tight nerve under his ear. 

“You know you should see…” Percival started, his voice grating. He was annoyed. 

The prince was met with a heavy silence that smothered his words, and Siegfried shook his head, reiterating, “I am fine, Percival. I want to talk about you.”

That wall was suddenly back in place, the armor that Percival came to hate. It was the only aspect of this man he intensely disliked. He had found chinks in that defense, and managed to wear it down, and before Percival could proudly claim his dues, the prince was summoned to return to Wales.

Percival licked his lower lip and then clenched his teeth in aggravation. He stared at his former commander, his eyes fixating on him. 

Siegfried looked away, his gaze trailing to the ceiling of the bath chamber. Then he spoke, his voice even and stoic.

“You’ve returned to Wales two years after my incident. Nothing had happened since. Feendrache and Wales are both peaceful at this moment,” The man’s fingers moved to rub a little at his brow. “Your elder brother is doing a good job, is he not?”

“He is,” Percival replied, canting his head a little suspiciously at Siegfried, his exasperation vanishing, “Why are you stating all these?”

“Why does Aglovale think I’m a threat to his country?” 

Percival closed his eyes and expelled a breath. 

“He heard rumors about you being here in Dalmore. And that, King Carl had sent you to investigate a kidnapping to do with Otherworldly Beings.” 

“And?”

A muscle twitched in Percival’s neck. His shoulders rose and fell in a defeated shrug. “He told me to watch you. And report your movements to him.”

After a lengthy pause, Percival muttered in a tired, thin voice, “I’ll return to Wales tomorrow. You’ve discovered me, and I’ve told you the truth. Likely, you already knew I’ve been following you for the past week.”

Percival swallowed a lump in his throat.

“There’s nothing else for me to do here.”

A low rumble started in Siegfried’s throat, a mixture of amusement and disapproval. 

“You do not have to go back to Wales,” Siegfried said. And there it was again, that sincere sympathy laced throughout the deep sound of his former captain’s voice. 

“How is that even possible?” Percival sat up straight in the water, his sudden movement sending waves over the bath’s edge. 

“Extremely possible,” Siegfried replied rather meaningfully. “You should continue spying on me, Percival. That way, you could still provide information to Aglovale and complete your task.”

“Why would I do that?” Percival muttered, trying to be blasé about at the suggestion. His hands clenched and unclenched, and he felt himself go rigid.

The bath’s waters churned, splashing over the perimeter as Siegfried rose to step out of the pool, droplets of water rolling down his back, thighs, and calves to puddle on the tiles. Abruptly remembering the injury he had observed earlier, Percival glanced upwards at Siegfried’s bared back. He flinched, recoiling at the sight.

The wound curved from the bottom of Siegfried’s spine, carved across the expanse of his back and up to the thick muscles of his right shoulder. The skin along the scabbed edges was dry, puckered, and pinched, a tell-tale sign of hasty healing magic attempted to stave death’s grip away.

He had only seen this form of magic twice in his entire life.

The first was when his mother lay dying after the bandit attack. His elder brothers had tried to stop her bleeding. The other time was during the Second War of Burgundy as a young vice-captain when a pole-arm impaled one of his men. 

He did not remember witnessing Siegfried in any form of life-threatening danger unless this accident happened before Percival entered Dalmore. He decided to confront Siegfried about the injury later. But first, Percival must resolve this ridiculous proposition.

“You’re not making any sense, Siegfried,” Percival stood up, water splashing and lapping around the upper part of his thighs. His eyebrows arched incredulously, and the previous bewilderment on his face turned into sharp displeasure.

Siegfried had strolled to the bench between the two baths and picked up a folded towel. He tied it around his waist, knotting the material securely at his hip. Siegfried seemed to pause for a moment, and he took the second towel, draping it on his forearm.

Percival’s gaze latched onto Siegfried as the man walked back to the edge of the bath. Siegfried bent slightly down to level his gaze with Percival’s. He clicked his tongue soft and held out the second towel to Percival.

“How do I even continue to spy on you?” Percival stared at the man standing before him, his eyes distractedly moving to that scabbed wound on Siegfried’s chest and flitting to the towel that was proffered in his face. The flame-haired man blinked a few times and unceremoniously snatched the towel from Siegfried. In a disconcerted, fumbling motion, he lowered his head and tried to tie that towel around his waist.

“That’s easy,” Siegfried said. Without warning, he leaned forward to arrange the damp locks of flame-red hair across Percival’s brow, his fingers neatening the strands to one side of his forehead. The little action startled the prince, and he raised his head, glowering at Siegfried.

Siegfried smiled a little to himself despite that menacing look that Percival was giving him. The prince’s expression was an odd mix of a seething scowl at his hair being re-arranged, and rising annoyance at Siegfried’s placidly amused face.

“Easy?” Percival nearly rolled his eyes as he shied away from Siegfried’s fingers, confused by what his former captain was doing, “What are you trying to suggest now, Siegfried?”

Siegfried laughed, and the laugh settled into a vague, enigmatic curve of his lips.

“Be my secretary, Percival.”


	5. Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siegfried speaks with Arith about Percival.

“What?”

He was caught like a deer in a trap.

Siegfried repeated good-humoredly, and his hands moved to cup his knees, “Be my secretary, Percival.”

The prince clamped his lips stiffly. He stared at Siegfried, unsure of a reply and unwilling to decide at this point. Yet somehow, he faintly comprehended the reason for this offer and appreciation for his former captain tightly gripped his heart.

“I…” Percival began, and his throat felt dry and constricted, despite the heat in the room and he muttered hoarsely, shrugging, “I’ll tell you tomorrow morning.”

He watched Siegfried’s face closely after his poor attempt at an excuse. The earlier geniality on the man’s face faded and he nodded silently after hearing Percival’s answer. 

He thought he saw disappointment briefly shade Siegfried’s eyes as the man straightened and stood, turning to leave. Percival’s lips twisted slowly and he waded towards the edge of the bath, pressing a palm to the tiled floor to push himself out of the water.

A light knock on the bath chamber’s sliding doors startled Percival, pulling his attention to the doors. Arith had returned with a neat pile of clean clothes. The erune had slid the doors wide open. He peeped in from the ante-chamber, his cat-like eyes peering from on top of the clothes in his arms.

“Your Excellency? Your clothes…” Arith’s lower lip wavered, sensing the tension in the bath chamber. Siegfried stopped in the ante-chamber and glanced at the garments the erune was holding out to him. His mouth twitched slightly.

“Go prepare the guest room for his Highness and bring him there. And have Lady Paulyne prepare a dinner tray for the prince instead,” The man instructed quietly, keeping his voice very low. He took the clothes from the erune, and pulled the shirt around his body, not caring if his skin was still wet. 

Arith’s expression wreathed in empathy. Softly he mouthed, mindful of Percival being within earshot, “What about yourself, your Excellency? You wish to dine alone?”

“You can bring me supper later,” Siegfried flatly replied as he turned to depart down the hallway to his rooms, his footfalls slow and heavy.

Arith shook his head. His sensibilities warned him not to ask after the man, and he pulled his lower lip into his mouth, contemplating what he would say to Percival. As he stepped into the bath chamber, his hands reached behind to slide the wooden doors close. 

“Your Highness?” The erune looked around, expecting to see Percival still in the water. The bath was empty, the waters still and gleaming. Arith stepped in, padding barefooted along the marble-tiled wall. Percival stood at the bench where earlier, the erune had left towels and clothing. Instead of a shirt, the prince had picked up a sleeping robe and pulled the garment around his shoulders. 

Percival turned around. His hair was very damp and tangled as it strayed down to his shoulders. His face was tense and terse. He noticed the erune standing a distance away, watching him in concern. It made him uncomfortable, and it raised the hairs on his nape. He tilted his head and arched his back, making himself just a little taller as the erune moved next to the bench, picking up the remaining towels and clothes.

“Did Siegfried make an arrangement for me?”

Arith nodded, folding a pair of slacks over his arm. The erune’s next two lines were carefully textured with deference, “I’ll take you to your room. Your belongings will also be delivered from the safe house, Your Highness.”

Percival tied the robe a little tighter around his body, uncomfortable with the growing uneasiness in his mind. He tried to compact it, push it out of his thoughts. It would have been easy just to accept Siegfried’s offer. There was a bitterness in his mouth as he recollected the disappointed look on Siegfried’s face. 

“Take me to the room, Eliya.” 

“I’m Arith, your Highness…”

Percival did not reply, nor apologize. He merely grimaced and turned to leave the bath chamber, his hands clenched into fists, and his movements contrite and insecure. The erune hurried after him noiselessly.

It was very late at night when Arith made his way to the ambassador’s office. He wheeled in a serving cart, on which a pot of hot coffee rested along with a covered cake-stand. The cart was positioned next to the wide mahogany desk which Siegfried was working at. The erune gently tapped the desk with a slim knuckle, alerting Siegfried to his presence.

“Did he finish his dinner?” Siegfried leaned back against the upholstered back of his chair, his elbows resting on the chair’s arms, his fingers pressed into a lowered steeple. 

Arith placed a white porcelain cup and a saucer on the man’s desk, taking care not to put the receptacle too near the stack of documents and the files that Siegfried was perusing. His long, lanky shadow fell across the desk, and Siegfried paused in his reading.

“He did. I had Lady Paulyne bring him a tray and a new set of clothes for tomorrow.” The erune reported, and at the same time, poured steaming-hot black coffee into the cup from a silver coffee pot. At the same time, he turned to cut a generous slice from the large cake sitting on the serving cart next to the desk, “She said he finished everything she served him. And he thanked her as well.”

Arith slid the ceramic cake server underneath the slice of cake, lifting it to place on a plate. He dusted a few crumbs away from the surface of the plate and picked up a small fork, “I’ve checked his wound after the bath, your Excellency. The wounds have closed. His Highness should be able to carry out strenuous activities after a few days.”

Siegfried picked up his quill and started to annotate another set of documents as Arith continued to report. The man frowned, his eyebrows notching into each other. This was the only part of the mission that he inherently disliked. Give him a sword every other day to fight and he would be willing to slay a thousand monsters. He’d rather do that than wrestle with his mind over pages of confusing words and terms.

Siegfried had stoically prepared himself for this mission. And for over three long months, he had learned how to speak and learned to socialize (or struggled to attempt to). Learned how to bargain and learned how to discuss policies. 

It was not him, and it did not settle well with him. 

Yet, loyalty to and gratitude for his former king’s brother rose above it all. Something good did come out of that intense training though; he discovered that he was just a little better at reading subtleties. He found it a little easier to speak to a crowd, and a little less awkward accepting invitations from others. Though, he was still very much inept when it came to the finer aspects of society’s nuances and especially his choice of clothes. The latter, he did always have help with. But that was before Percival left. The memory gnawed gently at his heart, and he stilled his breath, willing the thought away reluctantly.

The man lifted the spectacles away from his nose, setting his glasses on the table. Siegfried turned to glance at the tall, arched back of the erune who was busy preparing his supper.

“Did Eliya bring all the necessary items from that safe house?” 

Arith padded back to the desk and set the plate with a slice of cake in front of Siegfried, placing the dessert fork at a neat angle, on the plate, “He found everything that needs to be taken, and also the ones which you mentioned that will be there. I have asked Eliya to bring everything to his Highness’ room.”

Siegfried coughed hoarsely, “You did what?”

“Was it not your intention?” Arith seemed puzzled, the tips of his ears arching upright in alarm.

The man shook his head in an inconsequential manner and returned to reading his document. Arith tilted his head lightly aside, as he mulled. The erune laced his fingers lightly in front of his chest, his chin lowered. Then, he cleared his throat softly, “If I may say something, your Excellency?”

Siegfried looked up. His fingers tapped a little on the desk’s polished surface.

“Go ahead, Arith.”

The erune deliberated for a moment and raised his head.

“You’re too kind, your Excellency.”

The comment brought a short laugh from Siegfried. The man leaned back into his chair again, shaking his head at the erune as if denying the compliment.

“Why do you say that?” Interest and intrigue swept into the chestnut-haired man’s tawny sights as he watched the erune’s face. Arith’s eyebrows crested and his expression was perplexed. 

“You offered to employ his Highness, knowing that he will continue to provide information to the Wales King.”

“You’ve overheard us?” Siegfried’s question was more curiosity than accusation. A slip of a smile hinged on the edge of the man’s mouth.

“I’ve only heard your offer, your Excellency,” Arith confessed.

“Was that a wrong move, Arith?”

The erune shifted on his feet and shook his head, “No, your Excellency. It was right. I was wondering why you would put yourself in such a dangerous position.”

Siegfried smiled, his voice growing sentimentally mellow, “The prince has shown great care for me, and he was always there when I needed him.”

Arith’s face fell. He was not expecting the sudden confession, and the erune looked distinctively ashamed, “I fear I do not know of the history between you and his Highness, your Excellency. Apart from that he was your vice-captain in the Black Dragons...”

“He was more than just my vice-captain, Arith. He saved my life, many times, more than just once,” Siegfried continued, the nostalgia in his tone fading into a wistfulness, “Perhaps I could do more for him.”

Arith leaned forward, balancing his hands on the serving cart’s rail. He listened attentively, his demeanor rapt.

“Will his Highness agree to your offer, your Excellency?” 

“I hope so, Arith.” Siegfried rubbed at his temple lightly, a formless doubt dwelling in the depths of his mind, “I’ve not seen him for two years. It’s been a long time, and that time away could very well change the way a person thinks or feels.”

“You’ve not seen each other for two years?” Bewilderment levered onto Arith’s face, and the erune’s eyebrows lifted in dismay.

“We had an understanding before we parted,” The man settled deeply into the upholstered back of his large armchair, “He needed to find himself again. And so did I.”

“What do you mean, your Excellency?” Arith ventured a little too eagerly.

“We are alike in many ways, Arith.” 

“The prince and yourself?”

Siegfried did not reply and he merely nodded. The man’s mind wandered, maudlin in his thoughts, and a yearning in his imagination. Then, he smiled inwardly as if a revelation took shape and consummated within him. 

He pulled the plate of cake forwards, and picked up the dainty fork, turning the tiny utensil in his big hand. The fork was placed aside and the cake picked up with his bare hand. He took a large bite and chewed slowly.

“Good cake, did Lady Paulyne bake this?” He finished the other half just as quickly, his thumb moving to pick a few crumbs from the side of his mouth.

“She did, your Excellency. This morning. Would you like another slice?”

Siegfried declined with a shake of his head.

Arith leaned across the desk and took away the empty plate and fork, making a mental note not to provide forks anymore to Siegfried. 

The erune’s voice grew contemplative as he walked to the serving cart to return the utensils, “I realized his Highness is in a very difficult position. I can feel his frustration. Would it not be better to have the prince return to Wales?”

Arith’s question was not answered immediately. The erune stood by the serving cart, his hands laced again in front of him, and he waited, expectant and interested.

“What might happen if I allowed the prince to return to Wales?” Siegfried asked after a long silence, his words lightly retrospective. The man paused, pursing up his lips and he continued, as an afterthought, “You have a brother too, Arith.”

Siegfried had picked up the cup of coffee, testing the temperature on his lower lip before taking in a mouthful of the bitter brew. He returned the cup to his table and the man watched part of his reflection on the wavering surface of the remaining contents. 

“The prince expects too much of himself and he is worried about what the Wales King thinks of him,” Arith replied after a moment’s deliberation. The erune picked up the coffee pot and replenished Siegfried’s cup, turning his attention to focus on the steady stream of hot liquid. Arith’s ears flattened back slightly, remembering the snatches of conversation the two men had in the carriage earlier that evening.

The erune placed the pot back onto the serving cart and leaned an elbow onto the cart’s rail, “Eliya has great expectations of himself too. He is always trying to prove himself too.”

Arith laughed good-humoredly, his dimples tugging at the edge of his lips, “I suppose my twin brother and his Highness are quite alike. I see what you mean now, your Excellency.”

Siegfried nodded, his hand moving to pick up his glasses again to replace them on his nose, “I fear only one thing, Arith.”

“What might that be, your Excellency?” 

A sharp rap on the closed doors of the office stopped Siegfried from answering. And before either the man or erune could react, the door burst open.

Eliya stalked in, his hair a mess of unruly black tangles, his white collared shirt crumpled and missing a few buttons. The dark blue pin-striped butler coat worn over his bareback shirt was torn at the shoulders. His gray-tipped ears were lowered and flattened in anger. The erune kicked the door with the heel of his shoe, slamming it shut. Arith let out a disagreeable whistle at the sight of his younger twin. He walked away from the serving cart and stood before the furious erune.

“You do know that violence’s not allowed in the manor, Eli?” Arith gripped the torn front panels of Eliya’s shirt and pulled them together, his voice a low, warning hiss, “Did you fight with his Highness?”

Eliya spat, moving his arm to his mouth and wiped his lips on his coat’s sleeve, “He wanted to fight, I gave it to him.”

Arith turned and looked at Siegfried, his mouth curving downwards in concession, “Your Excellency…”

“Arith, Eliya. Sit,” The man gestured at the two chairs in front of the desk, his expression calm. Arith slid a hand behind his brother’s back and pushed his fuming twin towards one of the chairs. Grimly satisfied that Eliya was seated in place and behaving, Arith unbuttoned his coat and settled into the other chair.

Siegfried linked his fingers together, resting his hands lightly on the pile of documents before him. The smallest of all frowns slipped across his brow and it vanished the moment he spoke. 

“What happened?”

The erune scowled faintly at Siegfried, his hand moving to pull up one of the broken sleeves of his coat, “I carried out your instructions and gave him all the belongings from the house at Halion Street. He looked through them, and said I stole something that belonged to him.”

Arith glanced at his twin, eyebrows lifted in surprise, “What did his Highness accuse you of stealing?”

“A picture of his mother.” Eliya growled, shaking his head, “Why would I steal a picture of his mother? I told him there was no picture of his mother in the safe house.” 

“Perhaps there was indeed a picture. I might have overlooked that,” Siegfried murmured, leaning back into his chair. He frowned and cupped his chin, his fingers rubbing his jaw. “Seems like someone visited Aglovale’s safe house before Eliya did.”

Both erunes turned towards the man, narrowing their eyes at Siegfried. Arith crossed his hands in front of his chest, his chin dipping in thought, his furred ears moving to and fro slightly. Eliya’s mouth pursed and he rubbed his knuckles across a bruised cut on his upper lip. 

“The doors were locked when I arrived, your Excellency,” Eliya muttered irritatedly, his hands moving to his head in an attempt to tidy his wild, unruly mane, “But I’m not surprised if someone did. Those locks were too easy. They were the dumbest locks ever. And I thought the Wales King was swimming in money.”

“Nothing else was taken from his Highness? His clothes, his armor, or his money?” Arith sat up, the furry tips of his ears prickling upright, his face pensively baffled.

“No. I cleaned out every room in that safe house that smelled like him and I took everything in the list,” Eliya drew in a deep breath now that he had managed to make himself look presentable, “And I told his Highness three times, no, six times, that there was no picture of his mother. Then he threw a punch at me.”

Arith’s lips drew inwards and he stifled a laugh in his throat. Shoulders shaking, he unhooked his arms and clapped a hand over his mouth, realizing he was out of line. His ears wiggled slowly as he calmed himself down. Then, he glanced sideways at his twin. 

“So, you punched him back?” 

“Of course,” Eliya replied smugly under his breath, a triumphant smirk on his lips, “He moved like a slug.”

Siegfried slowly removed his glasses and placed them on the table. He rested his forehead into an open palm and sighed. Arith sat up quickly, placing his slender, beringed fingers on the edge of the ambassador’s desk, a proposition on his lips.

“Your Excellency, do you want us to investigate this?”

“Investigate? Why should we be going after a picture of someone’s mother?” Eliya stared at his twin, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. Then, he sneered, his eyes narrowing at Arith, “Heh, are you finally bored with playing house, brother?”

Arith startled at the comment. He turned to face Eliya, his gaze icy, his mouth set in a frosty hyphen. The older twin drew his arms back to cross over his chest again, and he remarked in a chilly tone, “And you fought with an injured man. How honorable is that?”

Eliya’s face paled at his brother’s glacial retort. 

Arith’s eyes coldly riveted on the lowered head of his twin, “You do not think that something is amiss here?”

“What? Why would anyone want someone’s mother’s picture?” Eliya scoffed under his breath, pushing back a lock of hair from his eyes. He bristled slightly, turning his face away from his twin, “Stop glaring at me like that.”

“It’s more than a missing picture.” Arith’s arms folded even tighter against his chest, his mouth twisting, his expression preoccupied. “Whoever took it, knows his Highness’ identity.”

“More than just his identity,” Siegfried murmured. He stood up, pushing his chair away from him. He straightened his shirt and picked up the dark blue coat which hung on the chair’s top rail. The usual pleasantness on his face was gone, replaced by a deeply bothered expression. He gave a cursory glance to the documents still piled up on his desk.

“Arith?”

“Yes, your Excellency,” The older erune rose noiselessly at Siegfried’s call, his hands moving respectfully behind his back. Arith stepped away from the chair and stood next to it.

“Clear the schedule for the next two days, and prepare a set of notes for his Highness,” Siegfried pulled the coat around his body. He grimaced, feeling his skin stretch painfully around the scabbed wound under his clothes, “The prince will take over some of your duties after tomorrow.”

Arith’s ears folded back slowly, and a perceptive gravity descended on his clean-cut features. The erune adjusted the lapels of his black coat before rebuttoning the garment tightly. He smoothed down the fabric and bowed after the departing man, “As you command, your Excellency.”

Eliya peered after Siegfried’s back as the man strode towards the office’s door. He snickered mutely and he rose as well, slipping the torn coat from his body the moment Siegfried had left the office. The garment was dumped unceremoniously on the chair, and Eliya arched his hands on his hips, turning to look at his twin with a peculiar lift of his eyebrows. 

“Did he just fire us?” Eliya lifted one arm to scratch the back of his head.

Arith breathed in deeply and shook his head, amazement stripping away the softness of his voice, “No, Eliya. He just gave us the most important job of our lives.”


	6. Acceptance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival agrees to become Siegfried’s secretary and help him to complete his mission.

Siegfried stood outside the closed door, his breaths slow and measured. He was unsure of how he might react or what he was going to say if the door opened. Two years away from Feendrache, and constitutional education under Aglovale’s tutelage seemed to have changed Percival. 

It was worse than he thought.

He should not have let him leave two years ago. 

_He_ should have made him stay, stopped him from going.

Siegfried was deeply bothered the moment he realized how willing Percival was to be involved in espionage, and how unwilling Percival was to give him an answer. 

It sourly reminded him of their very first meeting when the younger man arrived in Feendrache, haughty, stubborn and mistrustful. But he saw a glimmer of that old kindness and affection underneath all that grating demeanor. 

Siegfried told himself silently, that was the reason he was standing out here. He could have waited for Percival’s answer in the morning. But he did not want to anymore.

Waiting needed patience. And patience with himself was never a forte until later in Siegfried’s life. Patience was learned, and patience only became a habit after his years with King Josef. Now and then, he could sense a recklessness well up in him, a recklessness he would always forcefully quell and be patient. 

And having patience usually proved to be effective most of the time.

Just not this time. Maybe recklessness might be the better choice.

Siegfried’s hands clenched. He felt as if he had gone back in time and was trying to get to know Percival all over again. Doubt dug at him harshly, and he was skeptical about himself.

The soft tap of sensible shoes made him turn his attention away from the door to the short, matronly figure of Lady Paulyne in the hallway. Her finely-plucked eyebrows arched at the sight of her employer standing outside the prince’s room and peered questioningly at Siegfried.

“Sir Siegfried, just what are you doing here? You should be at supper.” The woman chastised as she walked to his side. He noticed the full tray of desserts and tea in her hands and he too, looked at her with a raised brow, followed by an acknowledging nod.

“I had my supper,” Siegfried told her reassuringly, and his eyes traveled to the tray in her hands, “And did his Highness ask for this?”

She shook her head, and her gaze shifted to the closed door. A heavy sigh escaped the woman’s lips, and she spoke in aggravated concern, “The prince seemed sad. So, I had the chef prepare this for him. Something sweet might cheer him up.”

She was a kind soul, this woman, and Siegfried was silently grateful the housekeeper was perceptive enough to care. She reminded him a little of Vane with her bubbly smiles and a head of curly bright-blonde hair. 

“I’ll bring it to him,” He told her, and held out his hands for the tray heaped with sweets and a silver tea-set. The woman offered the tray readily to him even before Siegfried could finish his request, her face brightening cheerily. 

“You’re a good man, Sir. Bless your soul,” Lady Paulyne adjusted the sugar canister on the tray and checked the pot of tea again. And she glanced up into Siegfried’s face, her hands clasped and tucked under her round chin, “Tell the prince, whenever he feels doubt in his heart, certainty will be there in a good cup of tea and a pudding.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him that,” The man promised sincerely, his eyes glancing at the door and back to the woman. His voice lowered, pleading and conspiratorial, “Would you help me knock on the door?”

The housekeeper raised her brows and she held back an amused cough. Quickly, she turned to rap smartly on the door, her voice calling out to Percival in a motherly manner. They heard a heavy thud of feet and a rough shuffling sound which grew louder as it approached the door. Lady Paulyne raised her hand and patted Siegfried’s forearm, giving her employer a supportive smile. He quietly mouthed a ‘thank you’ to her as she departed, and she wiggled her tiny hand in an encouraging wave at him.

The door creaked, and it swung open to reveal a messy head of damp red hair.

“You don’t need to bring me anything else, Lady Paulyne, I’m alright, I…”

Percival glanced up in surprise, finding himself staring right into Siegfried’s face.

“What are you doing here?” The flame-haired man muttered crossly as he gripped the door jamb, disconcerted to find his former captain here instead of the rotund housekeeper. Siegfried did not reply, and he merely smiled, lifting the tray of sweets and tea in his hands. Percival glared and blinked, the heel of his hand rubbing at a sore bruise on his cheek, his gaze not quite focused. He pulled the door wide open, and stepped aside, allowing the man to enter.

“I was asleep,” He lied brusquely, closing the door as Siegfried made his way in. Percival leaned against the door paneling, his eyes narrowing in unhappiness at Siegfried’s back, “And I’ve already said you will get my answer tomorrow.”

Siegfried did not react to Percival’s words. Instead, he walked to a marble-topped long cabinet and set the tray of food down. Then he turned around, not to regard Percival, but to take a long, observant look around the room. He did not care enough to visit any of the guest rooms in the manor, and now that he was in one, it was way too large and much too opulent for his tastes. 

The lanterns on the walls drowned the entire room in yellowed pools of light, stained with garish gold. Percival’s belongings were neatly stacked against one of the walls, and next to them was a steel rack dressed in the familiar red and silver of the prince’s armor. A large bed was tucked to the furthest end of the room, the bedsheets piled at the end of the bed, messy and overturned.

“Are you listening, Siegfried? You should go.” Percival grounded his teeth, letting out a taut sigh. He tugged at his robe, pulling the garment tighter around his body as he followed the chestnut-haired man. The prince stood in the shadows, unwilling to step into the light in case he was questioned about the bruises on his face. 

There was a leather settee facing the stretch of bay windows, flanked by two upholstered leather armchairs. Instead of obeying, the chestnut-haired man had settled himself on the settee’s drop-leaf edge, knees apart and his legs straight, his feet planted on the floor. His hands rested loosely on his thighs and looked in Percival’s direction.

“I’m not going.”

Percival crossed his arms on his chest, the frown on his face deepening by the moment. His mouth was stiff and immobile. Even if he did want to protest, his words crumpled within him.

“Percival.”

He was called again and beckoned by a quiet undertow in Siegfried’s voice to come forward. Siegfried did not move from where he sat, his back straight like steel, his gaze intense and unblinking. 

“Percival, come here,” Siegfried spoke again, asked in the same, soft tone. He turned his hands around, palms facing up as if in supplication. Siegfried had recognized that familiar desire in Percival’s eyes earlier. The prince had wanted to succumb to that refuge Siegfried had offered. Yet he did not. 

Ironically, Percival chose to hide to lick his wounds alone rather than to ask for support.

He heard a shuffle of feet, a scraping of slippers on the parquet flooring. But the shadows that hid the prince did not part.

Siegfried waited. He waited and he thought.

Was the road to kingship indeed such a lonely one?

Siegfried’s mind drifted momentarily back to Josef and the long talks that they had.

_‘What is loneliness?’ He had asked Josef once when the King had described Siegfried as lonely._

_They were in the gardens, a place which Josef often contemplated during his moments of rest. The King had said, ‘It is not the lack of company, people or creatures around one that makes one lonely. It is the lack of purpose.’_

_“How do I stop being lonely?” He remembered asking. Josef had looked at him with a certain pride at that question._

_‘Find your purpose, Siegfried. In all that you’d do, all that you would choose. Find your purpose.’_

_Josef smiled._

_‘Seek it, treasure it, don’t let it go.’_

Siegfried stood and crossed the distance between him and Percival. He reached out, gripped the prince’s shoulders and with tempered force, pulled Percival into the light. His actions were so swift and compelling that the prince did not have a moment to utter a protest. Caught in the garish glow spilling from the bedroom’s lamps, Percival lowered his head, lengths of crimson falling across a bruise on his cheek. 

“Why do you need to bother? I should just go back to Wales.” Percival muttered. He did not flinch from Siegfried’s grip but he was stiff and impassive.

“Stay here.” 

Percival raised his head, his eyes a disconcerted claret. His sights roamed and searched Siegfried’s face, only to be locked by the steadfast gaze of the man before him. 

And soothed by the quiet sincerity he used to find comfort in. 

Siegfried breathed deeply. His hands moved, pressing and palming the sides of Percival’s neck, easing the knots of tension in the prince’s muscles. His ministrations paused and his hands lifted to clasp Percival’s jaw, angling the flame-haired man’s face towards him.

“Stay here with me, Percival. Work with me like you used to. I’ll help you.”

Siegfried’s finger moved over the bluish-black bruise under Percival’s left eye, gently grazing the prince’s swollen cheek with his fingertip. Percival did not flinch, but his eyelids wavered briefly at the touch.

“I am not who I am anymore, Siegfried. I am not who I was two years ago.”

“It does not matter,” Siegfried replied calmly.

“It does matter!” Percival’s voice cracked, rising to a louder than his usual pitch. His body finally trembled, and he shuddered. He stared at Siegfried, anger scorching his eyes into a vivid scarlet, “Why do I feel so frustrated when I see you?”

Siegfried did not reply. He watched the play of light across the man’s red hair, noticing the gauntness of his jaw and the bruises on his face. He continued to cup Percival’s face in his hands. They stood still and silent facing each other, their bodies close but not touching. 

After a long moment, Siegfried spoke, his expression turning into an odd mix of reproof and empathy.

“Just stay here.” He simply suggested one more time with infinite patience. 

Percival made a soft, gruff sound. His cheeks burned and his heart felt as if it was sundered off its axis. Flustered, he turned his head away and found his lips touching the firm, warm surface of Siegfried’s large palm. 

“Percival.”

He gritted his teeth at the sound of his name. Then, he felt Siegfried’s fingers move across his lips, stroking and sliding. 

“Look at me, Percival.”

Siegfried spoke, even and modulated. 

“No matter how far away you are from perfection, and no matter how much you have to endure,” Sternness seized Siegfried’s voice as his eyes focused and locked onto Percival’s. “I want you to believe that all the effort you've put in so far, whether it was for the past two years, or back then when you were a vice-captain, have not gone to waste.”

It seemed to be one of the longest ever speeches Siegfried had ever made and he tensed visibly at the end of it all. Then, the chestnut-haired man frowned at himself and he opened his mouth again, his eyebrows sagging low. 

He looked rather depressed.

“I think I said that two years ago.”

Percival turned red.

“You did.” The prince briefly scowled and shook his head slowly. He’d almost rolled his eyes at this point, “You said all that after I nearly killed myself in a siege in Burgundy.”

“Oh, I did,” Siegfried murmured, his eyes darkening in dismay, “I thought it was something new I thought up.”

“Anyway, I will stay,” The flame-haired man mumbled tersely under his breath.

“Hmm?” Siegfried leaned closer, as if he did not hear.

Percival’s throat trembled. His mouth opened again in heated embarrassment, and his voice was just a little bit louder, “I said fine, I will stay.”

Siegfried let out a breath and he smiled as he held back a tiny laugh.

“Anyway, you talk too much, Siegfried.” Percival snapped, attempting to regain a semblance of his composure. Yet, he did not sound unhappy. 

In an apprehensive manner, he tilted his cheek against Siegfried’s palm, and continued, his tone imperiously demanding.

“I want a drink now, and I don’t want tea.”

Siegfried laughed again, and he looked a little indulgently at the flame-haired man.

“Yes, (my) Secretary Wales. Let’s go for a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd leave a little end note there to let the reader think a little bit more about the circumstances - but of course, I'm more dying to write a series of sexy Ambassador and Secretary escapades that's why this whole saga started in the first place. But firstly, to indulge in my own headcannons...
> 
> The story so far up to Chapter 6  
> Two years have passed since the incident between Siegfried and Gunther [aka the SIEGFRIED event]. The territories of Wales, Feendrache and Dalmore are enjoying relative peace and prosperity. Percival returns to Wales to continue his sovereign studies. Abruptly, Siegfried is dispatched to Dalmore as Feendrache’s new Ambassador. Suspicious of King Carl’s sudden move, Aglovale assigns Percival to spy on Siegfried. Percival fails at his task and is captured by Siegfried. The prince is brought back to the Ambassador’s manor and offered a secretarial position, allowing Percival to redeem himself on both sides. However, Percival struggles about his failure at the task Aglovale had given him. Siegfried senses that the prince’s defeated spirit is not merely disappointment at failing to spy. There seemed to be something greater obstructing Percival and the prince was completely disillusioned about himself.


End file.
